Denial
by HelenaUrie
Summary: I DON'T OWN STAR WARS. This is a "what-if" for The Trial of Darth Vader, a fanfiction written by JediKnightCaraD. Link: /s/11085954/23/The-Trial-of-Darth-Vader This "what-if" is based on what might've happened if, though managing to kill Palpatine, Luke and Leia still die. The main focus throughout this fanfiction is on Anakin Skywalker.
1. Day 1

Deviations from the original fanfiction:

-Anakin can hear, but barely.

-Anakin can only see loose shapes.

-Sgt. Sal has a similar appearance to Luke. (This is important later in the story.)

* * *

The Millennium Falcon raced through hyperspace, fleeing from the Sith planet of Korriban. With nowhere to go, Han Solo, after agreement from his two companions (and acceptance from one), decided to return to the Alliance. The trip from Korriban back to Coruscant, where the Alliance were still located, would take five days.

Han wiped fresh tears from his face as he left the pilot seat. He... he couldn't look at her lifeless body; the body of his wife- _his wife_ , whom had he just wedded not long ago.

Chewie wrapped his furry arms around Han, offering sincere condolence to his friend, who had, again, broken down into choked sobs.

In the main hold, Anakin stared blankly at his opposite wall as he cradled Luke in his arms. Tears were drying up on his mangled face; he wasn't crying anymore, simply drowning in a sea of denial. Reaching down, he squeezed his son's hand, muttering to himself that Luke was just asleep, that his son was simply tired, though his voice crackled with grief and disbelief. His eyes were terribly hollow, for it seemed as if his very soul had been sucked out and ejected into space. He brought Luke closer, wrapping the limp body in his warmth, holding his deceased child as if he were an infant.

He gazed upon Luke with kind, adoring yet immensely sad eyes, dotingly tracing circles around his son's face with his single hand. Luke's eyelids were slipped shut, while one of his limp arms was next to Anakin's abdomen, almost as if he were clutching the fabric of Anakin's jacket.

He- he heard a noise... was- was that a moan? It was distant, but- but- it- it must be... It must be Luke! Anakin jerked up as if he had suddenly snapped out of a trance and stared at his son's graceful features, praying that there was movement. The young man's face was peaceful, albeit lifeless. For a split second, Anakin's addled brain was convinced that Luke was having a bad dream.

"Shh... it's okay, Luke... nightmares are okay... Father's right here, Father will protect you... Shh... it's okay... you're safe..."

He slowly bent down and pressed his lips to Luke's greasy, grime-covered forehead. Once more, he brings his son's limp body closer, lifting his son's head and letting it rest against his father's chest. Anakin smiled at his son's mop of blonde hair, cuddled the young, cold cheeks against his own ruined, grey-mottled-with-pink skin, and with a raspy voice, began to gently hum a lullaby. He ran his hand through his son's hair, combing the strands with his spindly mechanical fingers. Murmurs of useless comfort escaped his lips, a slight smile of sadness sprouting on his face.

Anakin's eyes traced down to his son's bloodied, severely mutilated legs. The red blood had darkened and dried, leaving hardened trickles running down paled skin. Anakin's eyes flashed with hurt as he frantically caressed his son's head with a shaking hand. With a croaking, devastated voice, he asked his son,

"Oh, my precious Luke... Tell me, is your leg hurting a lot?"

He received no response and, consequently, chose to speak no further. The only sounds left in the Falcon were the harsh, rasping breaths coming from his own self, and the soft swishing of the fabric of Han's vest as Chewie moved to a different position and wrapped his furry arms around Han's shoulders.

For just a second, Anakin could swear he heard a sob. He looked down at the tiny, huddled form in his arms, hoping his little boy would wake up.

Luke looked the same as he had for the past three hours.

Anakin was silent as tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He turned away, looking around, as if searching for the familiar blue streaks of hyperspace for comfort.

Luke's left hand slipped from Anakin's cradle of broken love, swayed a little, and finally, it dangled lifelessly, just like the rest of the body that lay inside the father's desperate, solicitous arms.

Anakin held his meal in shaking hands, mechanical feet skittering against the ground. "They must be hungry... the must be hungry..."

His left leg was giving him trouble again, but he didn't mind. He had ignored Chewie's attempts to get him to eat- too sure that he can carry on, too sure that his children were still alive, too convinced that since it is mealtime and that surely, they would want food.

He made it to Leia's bed first. The corpse rested on the bed, covered by a thin white blanket. Han, aided by Chewie's emotional support, had moved the twins' bodies there, though Anakin, in his incoherent state of mind, would constantly remove them from their temporary resting place and fondly place them in his lap, giving hopeless attempts to warm their cold bodies up with the minuscule amount of heat that he held in his torso.

Anakin fell to the floor, his legs clanking against the Falcon's metal. The bowl of stew that he held in his hand threatened to spill over; Anakin set it onto the ground, hoping to stabilize the swishing liquid. The man took a moment to recover from his collapse, then slowly rose to a kneeling position, picking the stew back up.

"Leia, sweetie, wake up," he whispered near her ear, then squinted his eyes, anxiously hoping his daughter would stir in her sleep (and not have a fit if she wakes to him by her side). With the Force, he spooned out a bit of stew and held it close to her mouth. Seeing that she did not move, the dispirited man set down the stew and spoon, then moved closer, hunched down, and brushed his left stump – his flesh stump - against her cheeks. "It's time for dinner, sweetheart." He murmured in the most soothing voice that his damaged vocal chords could manage.

Again, Leia did not respond.

"I'll come back later, darling," he promised to deaf ears. Yes, his sweetheart was only asleep... yes, she'll wake up, she is simply too tired... he'll let her rest... he'll wake her up later... he'll let her sleep...

Anakin limped to his son's side, urging the frozen form to open his mouth and have some stew; again, he came to no prevail.

Dejected, he set the stew down, and began cradling Luke's head, holding it next to his chest. _They're just asleep. They'll wake up soon._

He remained there for an unknown amount of time, drowning in the silence and inaction. The only noise he could hear was the quiet, repetitive wheezes of his breathing.

A flicker of hope came ablaze in his chest as his nearly useless ears picked up a few indistinct sounds. Was- was it someone else's breathing? Or was it footsteps? Was- was his daughter- was his daughter waking up? He swiftly turned around, the gears in his mechanical legs whining in the process, as the pace of his heartbeats drastically increased-

 _Leia! Leia's awake, she's awake, she's awake! I- I must- she must be hungry... I'll... I'll feed her... yes, she would like some stew... yes, something soft, something easy to swallow..._

Leia remained there, in the still position that she had been in for far too long. She hadn't moved a single inch. He carefully pulled her from the bed, sat onto the frigid floor, and sheltered the dead body in his arms. His nearly blind eyes begrudgingly focused themselves onto her chest, observing it for a while, pleading that it would rise and fall, or even just heave a little... anything remaining to show signs of life...

Leia's body did not twitch a single bit.

 _He... he did this... Sidious... that monster that took everything from me... he killed my precious children, he killed my beautiful wife! He- he must've- he must've killed my mother, too! I will find him, I will murder him, I will avenge my family... no, I will torture him, I will torture him for eternity! I will make him_ beg _for mercy... I'll make him know how it feels to have everything be taken away from you... HE- HE DID THIS, HE-_

His blood roared, pounding against his temples and his hopeless ears. Anger swelled inside his body, coursing through his veins, pulsing with his heartbeat. He took a deep breath, quickly calming himself. "Luke would be upset if I start leaning into the Dark Side again," he mumbled to no one in particular. Closing his eyes and drawing the Light towards himself, he continued, "My son should smile when he wakes up. I want to make him happy."

He rose from the ground, and gently set his daughter next to his son, wrapping them both in Luke's white blanket. The blanket was adjusted so that the twins could, in Anakin's mind, be kept warm while they sleep.

He bent down and kissed their foreheads, then sat onto the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. His hand fumbled its way to Leia's, and his fingers tangled themselves around her smaller ones, squeezing them with all the affection that he had ever held in his heart. With a croaking voice and salty water trickling down his cracked face, he once more started humming a lullaby.

Han stared at Anakin, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown. His father-in-law hadn't had a single bite of anything today, nor any drink. No water, and he rejected brandy... drinks ranging from non-alcoholic Ardees to zoochberry juice, _nothing_ would go down the man's throat. ( _Well, other than his saliva,_ Han supposed. But then, without lubrication from outside fluids, his throat was probably parched, especially with the dramatic, or traumatic, day that they had both gone through.)

Currently, the man was sitting by his children's side. For all Han knew, he had been there for quite a few hours. It was as if the former Sith had been secluded from time, just staring at either the wall or the dead bodies lying on the bed. Anakin was obsessively rocking his children, with his left leg awkwardly splayed to the side. Han soon noticed the untouched bowl of stew laying on the ground.

The Corellian scoundrel inhaled, then walked a few short steps and stood next to the downcast man. "Anakin?"

The man probably didn't hear him; he was still rocking his children, with that small smile -created from a concoction of emotions and states of mind that went from delirious to brokenhearted grief- plastered on his face.

Han touched Anakin's shoulder, making the older man jump and turn to face his son-in-law's direction. Unfocused, watery blue eyes searched for a moment before finding Solo's face. "You ca-came- just in- in time, Solo. Can- can you wa-wake Leia up? I-I'm sure she will be _ve-very_ pleased to- to see you."

Han sighed, and peered at his wife's corpse for just a few moments before grief and nausea overwhelmed him. Turning away, he closed his eyes and set a hand on Anakin's shoulder.

"Anakin... I know how much it hurts, and I know how much you love Luke and Leia... but you gotta let go."

The voice cracked with pain. Han took a choked breath, then added,

"We both do."

Anakin bowed his head towards the floor and shut his eyes. There was a disturbing silence that ran between the two, as Anakin's mind took the time to process what he had just heard. Then, suddenly, he looked back up at Solo.

"C-c-" he struggled forcing the words out from his mouth. The tips of his mouth trembled, his cracked lips quaking as he took a deep breath.

"Yes?" Tears were forming in Han's eyes now, as his eyes involuntarily moved back to gaze at his fallen love. He wouldn't think of Leia, he wouldn't look at her corpse...

"C-can I stay- stay with the- them? Just for- for a li-little while more?" Like a bawling child, his breaths hiccupped as he stuttered.

Han nodded, squeezed the man's shoulders again, then quickly stepped out from the room. His tears were threatening to spill out and trickle down his face; once he made sure he was far enough for Anakin to not able to see him, Han leaned against the wall, buried his face into his hands, and broke down.

"Th-thank y-you," he heard Anakin croak from inside the room. Then came a quiet sniffle.

Soon, Han swore he could hear someone else crying too.

He couldn't let go. He couldn't let go... he couldn't let go...

He couldn't help himself to not weep, yet tears fell down his face like waterfalls, streaming on the cracks and splits, stabbing the unhealed wounds. It hurt- it hurt so much- as if someone had taken his heart out and chopped it into countless little pieces, then mercilessly sprayed salt on top...

He couldn't let go.

"No," he mumbled suddenly, almost as if waking up to some strange realization.

"I mustn't cry... I'll wa-wake Luke and Leia up if I- I do... they ne-need their- their rest..."

* * *

A/N.

Hopefully this is decent :)


	2. Day 3

The Falcon continues to travel through hyperspace, heading back towards what remains of the Rebel Alliance after the fight over Coruscant. Han and Chewie still mourn, while Anakin is heartbroken and still in denial.

"Um... Anakin? Ain't ya gonna eat?"

Anakin did not reply, still kneeling next to Luke's bed, obsessively smoothing his son's blanket. Occasionally he would coo at the forever sleeping form, treating the fallen son as if he were an infant.

Han stepped closer and tapped the older man's shoulder. The older man jumped in trepidation, then blocked himself in front of Luke's corpse, as if protecting his deceased son. Anakin only let out a sigh of relief when he realized it was Solo.

Han asked again; Anakin mumbled a quiet no. "I'm not hungry," he mumbled, turning back to his son in a slightly rude manner. Fatigue was evident on the former Sith's face. Soon, Luke's limp head was lolling in Anakin's one-armed cradle.

Han frowned, and dared himself to look at the body of his friend and brother-in-law. Though it still hurt to see Luke's lifeless form, he had to admit Anakin was taking care of his son's body to near perfection, though it was with a mindset addled with disbelief. He turned to look back at Anakin, who had set Luke's head down, and returned to smoothing out his son's blanket.

Han knelt next to Anakin and put a hand onto the elder man's shoulder. "Well, do ya think Luke's gonna want you to starve yourself?"

Anakin refocused himself on Solo, met his gaze with his devastated, unfocused eyes. At first, he was quiet in contemplation. Then he slowly shook his head. "No," he muttered. He turned his head back to Luke, his thin, cracked lips trembling in a quivery smile. "I don't want my baby to worry. I'll... I'll eat... Yes... I'll eat..."

Solo stood up and waited for Anakin to follow suit. However, Anakin had much difficulty pushing himself off the ground, perhaps, Han concluded, to his weakened body, added with age. He did not know how old his father-in-law was, but from his looks, he was on the road to soon becoming an elderly man. (Well, he was quite crinkled already, though perhaps that was from the stress of being the Empire's second-in-command.)

Solo helped Anakin stand, and together they staggered to the table. Anakin's metal feet skittered on the floor of the Falcon as he limped, and the man had trouble keeping up with Solo's pace.

Han slowed down.

It took a while for them to arrive at the table. Anakin winced as he saw the food, bile rising in his throat. However, Han didn't seem to notice his companion's reaction, and helped the older man settle down on a seat. Anakin swallowed at the panic that was building in his chest.

Han raised an eyebrow. "Well, whaddya waiting for?"

Anakin nodded and gulped down a little morsel but began to groan. Pretty soon he was clutching at his chest, his face scrunching up in agony. The man fell to the floor, gasping at the scarce oxygen flowing into his ruined lungs, trying to suppress the bare contents of his stomach from spewing out from his mouth-

On all threes, he desperately crawled towards the refresher-

Han heard Anakin's violent vomiting.

He made his way to the elder man's side, kneeling onto the floor next to Anakin, patting him on the shoulder, trying to ignore the small pool of undigested bits of food that lay nearby.

Wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell, Han asked, "Do you wanna try again?" A calloused hand squeezed the man's arm. Behind Han, Chewie roared, offering encouragement.

Despite Solo's efforts, all Anakin did was slowly turn his head away and hoarsely mutter something unintelligible. Shakily, he got up, and the hunched form began tottering towards where Luke and Leia rested.

Han seethed in frustration. Impatiently, he yelled, "Ya haven't slept an' ate for days! Look, we're all mournin', 'kay? Do ya think I don't care? She was my _wife!_ What makes _you-_ "

Anakin had already disappeared, and with his deafness, it was more than likely that the man hadn't heard Solo.

Han sighed, collecting himself from his outburst. Despite previous... feuds and mutual loathing, he was concerned for his father-in-law's rapidly deteriorating health.

Leia rested in her biological father's lap as the aging man tended to her infected hand. Anakin was sure his daughter was in terrible pain and had insisted on wrapping bacta patches over the wound. "There, sweetheart... is it better?"

Anakin was, to no surprise, met with silence. Leia's face was devoid of life.

With a shaking hand, Anakin brushed away a thread of oily brown hair from her face. Then his hand began running through her tangled weave, acting as a comb, stroking the messy strands with care. It was tedious work, as her sweat had dried and stuck the hair together, matting it down.

Solo approached Anakin, debating whether he should apologize for his earlier outburst. Closing his eyes, he refrained from looking at the corpse of his dead wife. Anakin did not acknowledge Solo as the man sat down next to him.

Another bandage was applied onto Leia's marred body.

"Anakin, we're running outta supplies. Could ya cease with all that stuff?"

Anakin did not respond.

Han felt that burst of sorrow once more as he mustered the courage to glance at his wife's cold body. She's... gone. Just like that.

"Anakin. She's not coming back."

Anakin shook his head, "my daughter's alive. She's simply quite tired. I do not want her to be in pain when she wakes."

"I said, SHE'S NOT COMING BACK!" Han fumed, tears threatening to trickle down from his reddened eyes. His breath came shakily as he lunged forward, trying to rescue her corpse away from her father's reach.

"NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, SHE'S NOT COMING BACK!"

Carrying Leia in his arms, Han strode away from Anakin, his head bowed as he silently wept. Behind him, Anakin tried to chase Solo and save his daughter from her husband's wrath, but the frail man immediately collapsed to the floor when he tried to stand. The man moaned, trying to support himself with his single hand. His breathing wheezed and rattled, his lungs collapsing. Chewie came to Anakin's side, helping the man unsteadily rise from the ground.

"Chew-... Chewbacca... I must... tend... to my... my children..." Anakin panted, his voice faltering, his lungs screaming for air. Chewie howled in disagreement.

While wiping away the froth on his lips with his left arm stump, Anakin shook himself free from Chewie's grasp. Leaning on the wall, he gradually took a difficult step forward, then another. On his third step, his left leg gave out, and the man pathetically toppled to the floor. Crawling with his remaining limbs, the broken figure traveled towards the direction of where Luke and Leia lay, tears streaming down his grotesque face.

Anakin's words were no more than defeated mumbles. "Why are you so pale, darling? You must be ill... I'll take you to the medic, I'll take you to the medic..." He repeatedly patted his daughter's shoulder, then stroked her cheeks, the Force around him buzzing with unrequited affection. "My little Leia... it's going to be okay... I'll take you to the medic..."

The tears kept coming, running over the tracks where previous ones had dried.

"Could I braid your hair, my beautiful darling? You look even more angelic when your hair braided." Anakin paused, taking a heaving breath, letting out a raspy, choked chuckle. "Oh, my sweetheart, my priceless jewel, forgive me… it is not possible for you to be more angelic than you already are…"

With the silence of the small form in his arms, Anakin sighed. "Sweetie, I'll hush. I do not want to wake you from your slumber. I know you are exhausted. I hope you are resting comfortably... I'll make you some breakfast when you wake... I hope you will find your new braids adequate and fashionable, darling..." He bent down, brushing her forehead with his scarred lips, a smile forming on his ruined face, stretching his many unhealed wounds. He folded Leia's arms around his waist, pretending he was getting a hug. The exposed flesh on his face burned, and his eyes ached from no sleep, but for now, he was in a delusion, and he was happy, if only temporarily. He wanted to spend as much time with his children as possible.

The tears stopped rolling.

He wanted to stay in his delusion. In his delusion, the pain of losing his little ones, like countless daggers mercilessly stabbed into his heart, was gone.

Leia was lifted into an upright position. Trembling mechanical fingers carefully twirled her hair, turning the loose strands into a braid that his passed wife once wore. The braid when she walked into Watto's shop...

 _"Are you an angel?"_

Her smile, her gleaming eyes... her lustrous body, that halo around her form...

He slowly shifted his barely functional eyes to gaze at his daughter, and whispered in her dead ears with a soft tone,

"Oh, little one... you're an angel..."

Anakin swore there was a slight twitch on her lips- he _knew_ it was there...

But gone in such an instant-

 _What was she like as an infant? I was away... I had missed those precious moments... Her first words? Her first steps? I would never know, I would never see... I was the destruction of their lives, I am a fool, I am a damned murderer, I tortured her, I tortured her, I hurt her so much, I tortured her I tortured her I tortured her-_

 _So guilty... So_ kriffin _guilty..._

Anakin closed his clouded eyes, enclosing himself in that peaceful, familiar, comforting darkness. There was only tranquility as he inhaled, trying to calm his irregular wheezing and ease his nagging remorse, but failing on the latter. He did not notice his son-in-law had sat down next to him until Solo spoke up. Solo's request was hushed and hitched.

"Could I... could I hold her? Just for a lil' while?"

Anakin nodded, marveling at the half-complete braid for a moment before gently lowering her lifeless body into her husband's arms. In a few moments, Luke was being cradled by his father like an infant. There was a noticeable smile on the old man's face, and Han was quite sure that somehow the former infamous Darth Vader was cooing at his 23-year-old son. When he looked closer, it seemed as if there was faked joy in those melancholic, hollow, weary blue eyes.

Leia rested in his arms, her entire body cold in death. Solo's fingers drew on her incomplete but nonetheless gorgeous braid, lingered there for a while, then moved down to caress her colorless cheeks. He remembered their arguments, their passionate kisses...

The late nights, her on his bed, clothes thrown to the side, her fingers tracing his chest...

His wife, vomiting for unknown reasons...

Their bliss as the doctors announced the wonderful news...

With tears stinging his eyes, Han spoke up. His somber voice crackling, he croaked, "ya know... Leia and I were expecting a-" He paused, unable to carry on. Grief overwhelmed the young man.

Anakin abruptly stopped from his cooing. The grin on his face had evaporated as desolation conquered the short-lived exhilaration in his eyes. With his voice in such low, grating rasps, Han could barely hear his disjointed words: "I... I could- could have- have be-been a... a g-grandfa-father?"

At first there were only sniffles as the elder man lowered Luke back onto the white sheets. Then the man, with his violently shaking arm, accidentally dislodged his breathing tube. His lungs collapsed alongside, and he fought for precious air, wheezing and wheezing and wheezing-

A coughing fit wracked through his body. His left leg spasmed. Remaining fingers began to twitch. Han heard something in the distance shatter, and its remnants falling onto the Falcon's ground. Objects surrounding the two began to tremble.

Anakin's head sagged to one side, his hand clutching his heaving chest as his breath shallowed more and more. His unfocused eyes were closed as tears streamed down his face. He gasped, the air refusing to flow into his scorched, dysfunctional lungs.

Han readjusted Anakin's breathing tube; Anakin tried to lift his arm and push the man away, but the metal was so heavy, too heavy...

The universe had collapsed onto his shattered heart, crushing the pitiful remnants into dust...

"Plea- please..." he spluttered, his body curling up, his face burying into his chest, "please, I beg- beg you... let me... let me die... please..."

Solo sighed. To Anakin's surprise, the man then wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Han could not help it- the sheer pain that surrounded the man was unbearable.

In Solo's comfort, Anakin completely broke down.

* * *

A/N.

I am perfectly aware that Anakin is currently around 45-46 years. :)

The people that have read my (terrible) one-shots (found on Wattpad) might point out that I sometimes described Anakin as an elderly man. That's because those one-shots take place years apart.

So... um... yeah. Thanks for reading.


	3. Day 5: part one

The Millennium Falcon is soon arriving at the remnants of the Alliance fleet. While Han is slowly moving on with Chewie as emotional support, Anakin still refuses his children's deaths.

* * *

The world spun. He was so dizzy... everything whirled... his head was bursting, ticking on a timer for explosion...

He had collapsed to the ground, the shock coursing through his body, the world spinning faster for a few moments. He felt a rush of blood, pounding a harsh beat into his eardrums. But... but he could not feel any pain, he was so numb... And he had lay there, wheezing, his thoughts swimming in murky, thick water...

Hollow eyes stared up at Han Solo as the man attempted to help Anakin onto an empty bed. "You gotta eat somethin'," Anakin thought he heard Solo say. He wasn't sure- everything was so blurry, and those words that came from Solo's mouth seemed slurred and vague, blending into the chaotic, indistinct background. The callous lights of the Falcon radiated around the ship, burning into his eyes- reddened, strained eyes that swelled from days of grief. Yet the burning felt like nothing; maybe it was all that torture he had gone through in the past two decades.

He has tried to consume foods, but every attempt was a failure that resulted in regurgitation, or, more commonly, puking. It was a waste of effort to swallow the bile down; it was not worth the agony to eat in the first place. Nor could he rest; sleep was plagued with nightmares of the past and the horrors of his children's deaths. He refused to sleep, he _couldn't_ sleep- sleeping brought unbearable pain, emotional pain that he, despite countless years of abuse, still could not endure. He knew his dear boy Luke would not be happy with his decisions, but surely, his son would understand his father's worry.

 _Luke!_ He had not tended to the young boy today yet. He had been lying on the floor, too weak and exhausted to get up, only staggering forward now with Solo's support. _I-I must... go... see my son..._

With as much force as he could muster, Anakin pushed Solo's support away. Anakin thought he heard a gasp and a refusal, but he wasn't sure. All he knew was that Luke must be lonely right now.

His son cannot be lonely unless he preferred temporary solitude. His son cannot be unhappy, unless if he wished to be. His son cannot be unloved and not cared for, unless if he desired so. His father would not allow him to be hurt.

Anakin instinctively blocked Han away with the Force, though his powers had waned from starvation and the effort was a struggle. Once he made sure Solo could not pass the barrier, at least until he got to Luke's room, Anakin staggered towards where his son awaited. Every breath, every footstep was a further toil; he wheezed from the exertion, his muscles aching from malnourishment.

 _"You know, you're probably not as strong as you used to be,"_ Luke's worried voice echoed through his mind. There had been a frown on his beautiful, seemingly immature face. Yes... now he was even weaker than when he fell attempting to do a one-armed handstand.

Still, he stubbornly carried on towards his son's room, relishing the memories, chuckling in warmth and gratitude at Luke's concern for his father. It felt good to love, and it felt good to be loved, even if he was not worthy of such feelings from his Precious One.

It only took a few steps before Anakin collapsed to the floor once more. He took a shuddered breath, then propelled himself forward, determined to make it to Luke. Han stared wide-eyed, baffled at just how Anakin was doing all this.

Anakin's arm gave in, and his upper body smashed into the ground. His heard his chest rattle and he could feel the burning in his lungs. _I... must..._

Arm violently shaking, he propped himself back up, his chest heaving, his body on the verge of crumpling down. _Luke..._

A few centimeters. Another push forward. A few more centimeters. Wormlike, he inched towards Luke's bed, clawing at the floor, his mind _knowing_ that his son must be lonely. Anakin grabbed onto the sheets once he reached the bed, and with great resolve, managed to lift himself next to Luke. His baby was asleep, his angelic face ever so peaceful. Gasping for breath, Anakin pulled his son close, and shakily cradled him like a newborn. Feeling Luke's cold body, Anakin closed his eyes and, with a smile, protectively wrapped his arms around his son and buried his forever beautiful face into his chest. The father's nose poked into Luke's hair, affectionately nuzzling and admiring it, and quivering fingers playfully pinched his pale cheeks. When he finally caught his breath, Anakin lovingly asked Luke, "Now, now... Who's the prettiest child in the galaxy?"

Oh, his son, his beautiful son...

Why was his body so cold? Why did he not smile when his father cuddled him? Why was there no spike of joy in the Force? Why was there no response to his father's infinite affection?

 _Why was his body so, so cold?_

Luke's cold body, lying limp in his embrace.

Luke's _dead_ body, his delightful face, set with no emotion, save the peace and silence of death.

Luke's luminous soul, his precious light, crushed underneath the Darkness; ruthlessly destroyed into shards, inhumanely scattered away like ashes and dust in the wind.

When he lifted the corpse from the pool of blood where it had rested, when his son's limbs dangled lifelessly, when he did not open his bubbling, infant-like, glossy blue eyes, when there was no naive grin on his colorless, cracked lips, it had hurt so much... _so much_...

And his darling Leia... Her corpse, lying in the same fashion, left to rot in that dark, clammy room.

Bile rose up his throat, threatening to spill out of his mouth. Nausea made the world twist and twirl, and he had to reach out with his stump to steady his quivering body. And the wretchedness came at him like tidal waves, flooding his heart, consuming his being...

Anakin brutally lurched forward, the last contents of his stomach spilling out onto the bedsheet. The appalling liquid snaked forward, touching the tips of a few strands of Luke's golden hair before his father could urgently push him towards safety from the acid. "I'm so s-sorry, Luke... I'm s-s-so, so s-sorry!" Frantically the man wiped away the small bits of puke with the clean part of the bedsheet. Throwing the sheet away from Luke once he was done, he brought his son's head into the warmth of his chest, smothering him with apologetic kisses.

"I'm so sorry..."

Stiffly, he knelt on the ground, staring at the hideous figure in the mirror. Though his face was washed and dried (he was sure that by now, his insides were going to spill out from his mouth), and the tears had mingled with the water and were wiped away, the blood-streaked eyes still gave evidence to his mourning.

He looked like a mess- a pathetic, sickening lump of mangled flesh.

His cheekbones were pronounced, and the pallid skin over his sunken, heavily scarred stomach was loose. If he could trust his useless eyes, he was sure that the elderly, downcast man in the mirror had paled by a few shades since the last time he observed his revolting facade. His body must be using muscle tissue for energy by now; he could not remember the last time a proper meal could slide down his miserable throat without his body retaliating with a puke and a coughing fit. It's... it's cannibalism to oneself, is it not? His grey, torn lips were the unhealthiest that the man has seen for... for a long time. Even in his past life as Vader, where daily he lived under pitiful conditions, he was usually in better shape than _this._ His melted ears sent loud ringing to bounce around his skull. Crusted, withered eyelids peeled away, leaning forwards, sagging like his shoulders. Fatigue made his ashen eyelids droop, and those damned blue eyes were more unfocused than ever. Anakin swore those pupils were looking in different directions; was that why everything seemed to come in collage-like pairs?

Yet no more did he care if his disappointing eyes collaborated or not. Inside, he was completely drained, too exhausted to think properly and act with logic. The painful, blinding lights of the ship would riddle his mind with confusion. Was he turning senile? He did not know. All he knew was that nearly all his sanity seemed to have escaped his hindered, agonized mind.

What did a decent meal taste like? He could not remember. He could not remember many good things. His memories have turned into nightmares; alongside, his mind was fading as his body handled infirmity in vain.

Sleep was dreadful. Constantly staying awake was better than the clear memories (unfortunately, they were the only vivid memories that he seemed to hold) of the deaths of his loved ones. Their voices would echo in his prison-like mind, screaming and pleading at him for salvation from their ultimate death...

The fires of the hellish Mustafar, where he saw her last...

Her divine body, limply falling to the ground...

It was his fault! He, the murderer of the woman he loved most, the destruction of her and himself. And... and...

And his children, his dear children... Taken from him in his cruel fate, snatched away without a word, not even a whisper. Gone, just like that. The golden, disheveled mop of hair that radiated in sunlight, that boyish smirk of amusement on his face whenever his father lamely attempted to crack a joke. His twinkling, innocent eyes, his bravery and stubbornness, his care for the man who did not deserve it.

Her thick, dazzling brown hair, flying around like charming ropes in the breezes of his dreams, and adorned like royalty in the holorecordings that he has seen. Her lustrous eyes, her rich, rosy lips. Her timid but firm stature, her commanding yet sweet and reassuring voice, her natural abilities as a magnificent leader; such resemblance that she bore to her brilliant mother.

He loved them with every fiber of his being.

The only joy left in his miserable life, so suddenly vanishing from him, being led into blackness and silence, put into their eternal rest.

He... he could have saved them! Had he... had he arrived faster to that desolate planet, had he been able to sense the danger, his children would still be safe! It's his fault! He should've known that his former Master, the one who had deceived him into all this _kark_ , had one more trick up his sleeve!

If only Palpatine had been killed under his blade, all those years ago... If only he had been able to see through that wizened, ancient crook's deception...

If only.

He would've had such an utterly, drastically different life. His wife would still be alive and hopefully in good health, his wonderful twins – the best thing to ever happen to him – would still be waking up every day and breathing air and laughing and consuming food and water, and there would be no feuds, and he wouldn't've ever hurt them, and he would be happy, and they'd all be happy-

 _My fault!_

He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to drown himself in hysteria. He wanted to taunt at himself, he wanted to chuckle at his own misfortune. But his mind, his _wretched_ mind, could not allow him so, _would not_ allow him so. The weaponry stabbed into his heart, again and again, once with every unsteady breath. He was trying to cling on, _so hopelessly_ , to the tiny shards, the near-invisible fragments of sanity that his mind somehow still held- and failing to do so.

Somehow, in his despair, there were warm hands wrapped around his back... was it... was it his dear wife? Had she come to take him to a better afterlife? Oh, when he was younger… how direly he had begged that she forgive him, that she does not condemn him to the Mustafar of the Afterlife for his misguided actions. When he was still submerged in the dark, when he could still withstand the agony of dreams, every night, in his few hours of rest, he had dreamt of being with her. Pleading, desperate crying for her, tears brimming his eyes as his anguished, disintegrating voice would croak in a futile attempt for his angel to come back.

Yet never would she satisfy his yearning; never would she return.

And unsurprisingly, the touch did not feel like her, not the softness, the smoothness, the gentleness and comfort of his deceased wife... Just... just the Smuggler, trying to offer consolation to him as he wept. He felt old, _so_ old, his mind and body eroding away with age and lethargy, his bones grating and creaking and fracturing apart with every movement, his lungs refusing to function, his senses diminishing into oblivion...

So old, so heartbroken.


	4. Day 5: part two

"On the Millennium Falcon: Day 5 (part two) + 12 hours later, in Anakin's prison cell"

 **ON THE MILLENNIUM FALCON: DAY 5 (Part Two)**

With tremendous grief, Han has agreed with the Alliance High Council to have Luke and Leia buried with honors for their importance in, and deeds for, the faction. His partner Chewbacca supports Han's decision; however, his other companion on the Falcon does not.

Mothma stood in front of him, her stature perfectly straight from years of profession as a Senator and leader. If one were to look down, they would see the hunched, withered form of the disgraced former Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker. The man was kneeling on the floor, weeping and begging for the Alliance to not take his children away while he wrapped his frail, thin body around his son like a cocoon.

"Please calm down, Lord Vader. Be assured that your offspring will be buried with full honors."

Anakin frantically shook his head, his unfocused eyes filled with despair. "No... I beg... you..." His ghostly voice quivered, his shriveled eyelids failing to catch the tears that slipped down.

Mothma sighed, trying to ignore the impatience that was ticking inside. "Lord Vader, it is time that Commander Skywalker and General Organa rest." She raised a hand to motion a few soldiers to drag the Skywalker twins away; in a few moments, the soldiers had grabbed the corpses' feet, earning a weak yet spiteful screech.

"You will n-not touch my children!" Anakin snarled as he tightened the grip he had on his son and pulled Leia into the embrace. They, those Rebels, they're going to hurt his precious little ones, they're going to hurt them they're going to hurt them they're going to hurt them-

His breaths were quivering and hiccupping, his eyes glaring in loath and paranoia. His heaving chest perched over his children's sleeping forms; his heart, which beat with agitation, rested above the dead ones of his two perished angels.

 _Solo, that Force-damned, traitorous Solo! How dare that scoundrel subject my beloved children to these people, these_ monstrosities _? No one should, with ill intentions, dare lay a finger on my children; no one should dare snap the littlest hair and live! I shall- I shall condemn him to the Corellian Hells, I shall-_

The soldiers tried again, this time with a harder pull. Anakin screeched and fought their grasps to the best he could, hugging his children tight, not letting those mindless demons get to his pure, innocent offspring. _They will not take my children they will not take my children they will not take my children-_

He will not be a spineless fool! He will not be a coward!

"No!" Anakin snapped at the guards, his body shaking with trepidation for the curled forms in his cocoon. "If you are to h-hurt my darlings, you all shall f-first step over m-my dead body!"

The air buzzed, his ears rang, his vision blurred, and he felt his children slipping from him-

He pulled tighter, wrapping himself around Luke and Leia's limp torsos, feverishly repeating that he will sacrifice his life for their safety, murmuring into their deaf ears, uselessly comforting them. He downright refused to hand his darlings to the Alliance. His body was no more of importance; all he had to do was keep them safe, he did not care if he is to die under the hands of his former greatest enemy. His children were all that mattered.

Despite his efforts, days of starvation and an already worn body rebelled against his endeavor. Anakin collapsed to the ground in absolute despair as he helplessly watched his children being dragged away from him; his _precious_ , _irreplaceable_ children, the only reasons he still cared to live. His chest, his heart, it all hollowed out, left in a consuming void that ate his soul up in the blackest fires of grief and pain.

The broken man erupted into a hysterical crying; Mothma helplessly watched the tears trickle down and seep into the cracks and crevices on Vader's ruined skin, onto his mangled chin, then drip onto the floor. Anakin lashed out in a howl of heartbreak, begging for his children to come back, vowing with a broken, choked voice that he would protect them, that, with disjointed words, he would try to be a better, a worthy, father. The body trembled, almost as if the very air around him stung his flesh, and his metal limbs clanked on the ground, the joints on his remaining mechanical hand twitching and turning as the hand shook. The watery eyes were shadowed with utter fear and distress, his scars stretched into a face of hopelessness as his devastated lips quaked. Emotions rippled out from the man like a tidal wave. The man fell forwards, curled up into a ball that quite resembled a fetal position, then those limbs stretched out as he writhed in his internal agony.

Mothma could not help but feel a pang of sorrow for the former Sith, who was splayed on the ground, the bare life in his eyes seeping away as his chest wracked against the cold floor, his shrunken, caving torso pressed against the ground. His fingers clattered against the tiles, his breaths catching and his oxygen pump on the verge of overworking, tears running over the tracks of ones that came before. Knowing his children had long gone, Anakin tried to muffle his cries into his arm stump, but he held no prevail.

Mon Mothma pitied the man in shambles; after all, as impossible as it may seem, Vader was a human. She had known, before the Purge, the great Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker. Kneeling, she gently peeled him from the floor and helped him sit up. The man let out a moan and gasped for air, but the waterworks would not stop.

Despite the senator's good intentions, Anakin jerked away as soon as Mothma attempted to place a hand on his shoulders. "Go- go away! Don-don't t-touch me, you cru- cruel, vile creature!"

Hysterical crying morphed into frenzied laughter as Anakin mustered all the strength left in his wrecked body and shoved Mothma away, into one of the seats on the Falcon. Bitterness and anguish resonated in the Force.

Mothma groaned from the impact, though she retained her composure. She nodded up at one of the medics who had tagged along. The young woman dug in her medkit, and soon drew out a needle. Slowly, the needle approached the squirming form on the ground.

Again, Anakin had collapsed, unable to hold himself upright anymore. He had nothing left, no strength, no joy; his body was just a broken shell, holding his useless, _worthless_ organs and his perpetually miserable brain. He wished so hard that he could just be numb, that he could escape this torture. He wished he could just... wish away this loneliness, this heartache...

It hurt, it hurt _so much_ , he could feel the air inside his lungs being sucked out into a vacuum, he could feel himself hyperventilating and panting for just the smallest amount of oxygen, yet he was unsuccessful at bring air in, and then he was suffocating and-

He wished he could just _wish away_ those memories of his dear wife, of his beautiful children, his past life, his younger years, those happier times. He so gravely wished that he could return to those days before the Clone Wars broke out, or even when his son would come visit him in his prison cell. He would give anything for the brutality of his destiny to vanish, just like he would give anything to see his family safe.

But it was _impossible_ , those memories would come and haunt him, he would see their ghosts in the wall, he would hear their angelic voices, he would constantly feel their warmth and their embraces, wrapping around his body and soul, making his heart and nose tingle...

Reaching down, he curled once more into that fetal position, and pulled his legs into his chest. His emaciated body shook violently, the tears forming a small puddle around his face.

Would the Rebellion give him mercy by ending his life? Would they relieve him of this pain? Or did he hold too much military importance?

He would never know; the needle had punctured his abnormally fragile skin, and soon Anakin was pulled into a dark, quiet, sedated sleep.

"Ya... ya can't just lock 'em back into that cell," Han argued, Chewie moaning behind him, motioning second.

Mothma bowed her head respectfully, "Though I am aware that Lord Vader is no longer hostile, other members of the High Council do not agree. I am obliged to follow the opinion of the majority, even if my stance is of opposition. Also, we must not forget that Lord Vader's sanity is wavering. I must put the safety of the Alliance first."

Han frowned and clenched his fist but did not object as the soldiers escorted unconscious his father-in-law, who was lying on a gurney, away.

 **12 Hours Later, in Anakin's Prison Cell**

Anakin Skywalker has been returned to his cell. Guards remain on watch for any signs of aggression. Anakin, consumed by grief, constantly shifts between reality and imagination.

Anakin's impaired eyes slowly regained their remaining focus. His head whirled at first, but the rotations soon ceased. His surroundings were familiar, though with his groggy mind, he could identify his location. The man turned his head to find a young, blonde man perched on the sole chair in the room. With effort, the aging Skywalker sat up, squinting his eyes at the man.

 _Luke? Is that you? My wonderful boy? Luke...?_

 _No..._

Anakin tried his best to hide his disappointment. With a slurred voice, he croaked, "Sergeant Sal?"

Oh, he was back in his prison cell. Just like every day- the same refresher, the same bland walls, his cot, the hard floor, the lone chair. At least the lights weren't piercing into his eyes.

Sgt. Sal sprang up and dashed to Anakin's side. Before the young man could even open his mouth, however, Anakin had already asked, "when will Luke return from his mission?"

He hadn't seen his son in quite a long time, and for some reason, he could not remember where his son was headed to for his latest expedition. Anakin grumbled a curse to himself. He should have remembered! But again, he was getting old. Surely Luke would understand that his father's memory was fading. After all, at least for humans, turning senile was a natural thing.

Sgt. Sal remained silent for a little while, pretending he was thinking, then muttered quietly with his eyes cast to the floor, "if all goes well, he'll come back within the next few days."

Anakin, whose mind was still groggy, believed Sal's poorly executed lie. A smile appeared on the wrinkled face, and his eyes were glittered with joy and anticipation.

"Mothma is visiting soon," Sgt. Sal informed Anakin in a comforting voice. Anakin nodded, then tiredly slumped back into his cot, waiting for the Rebel leader's arrival.

It did not take long for Mothma's presence to be found inside Anakin's cell. Sgt. Sal had stepped outside and shut the entrance, to give the two some privacy. Mothma mechanically took a seat onto the chair; Anakin's bleary eyes struggled to focus on the woman. However, there was excitement to be seen in the prisoner's eyes, which caused the senator quite some confusion.

"How are you doing, Lord Vader?" She inquired, her voice calm and flat. Caution was also practiced, as her back still ached from their previous encounter.

For reasons unknown, she was met with silence. Anakin stared at the wall, his face falling, the joy suddenly disappearing from his eyes.

 _Luke is gone. He's not coming back. Luke is gone. Luke is gone. Luke is gone Luke is gone Luke is gone-_

When Anakin's head was turned back to Mothma, all she could see in those eyes and that facade was misery. _Oh no._

But this time, Anakin was controlled. There was no lashing out, there were no howls of agony, only five choked, sorrow-filled words:

"May I attend their funeral?"

There was a sigh from Mothma; from her reaction, Anakin's face fell even harder, and tears began to bubble at the brim of his eyelids. Mothma took a careful inhale, then stiffly apologized,

"Lord Vader, there is no permission for you to leave your cell."

At first the words could not escape his tongue, and even when his vocal chords finally became functional, his desperate attempt only came out as disjointed stutters.

"C- can't... I g-go? Plea- please? They're my chil- children..." He gulped, closing his eyes, trying to shield them from the suddenly blinding lights of the lowly lit cell. "l love th-them..." Tears welled up more and more, his voice dangerously weak and raspy from starvation. A cough penetrated his body, sending his breaths unsteady and shallow.

"I am afraid not, Lord Vader. I apologize."

Anakin gathered all the strength he had left, and after a shaky inhale, he forced the words out with extreme effort, "I... I... love... Luke... I... Love... Leia... please..."

The man's head slumped onto the cot in a rather disgraceful motion. His chest heaved, his eyelids drooped down, and his mind threatened to shut him back into his slumber.

Mothma sighed, "I will make sure the funeral is recorded and that you will be given a copy of the result." With that, she, just as mechanical as when she had sat, stood up, and walked out of the cell.

Anakin buried his face into his remaining hand, and once he was alone in the cell, the tears ran free.


	5. Prison Cell: Two days later

Anakin refuses to take care of himself in any way. There is no meditation, no exercise, no intake of food, liquid, or medicine, and certainly no rest. The only sounds in the cell are the rhythmic rasps of Anakin's breathing, and the continuous mumbles of two words: "Luke" and "Leia".

* * *

A lone figure lay horizontal in its cot, tears streaming down the wet, cracked face. In front of him was the cold glow of a hologram, casting its blue light onto the dark surroundings.

The darkness used to comfort him. Now, he felt alone than ever.

The holorecording flickered off for a few moments, then replayed. A few more tears seeped out and lingered next to the swollen eyes, ultimately falling onto the floor. For the millionth time, a trembling metal hand reached out at the blue dashes of light, disrupting and distorting the image.

 _My precious children._

Metal fingers flexed, jutting forwards, protruding into the projection. He tried so hard to touch their coffins, to feel the smooth, shining material; but in the end, all he touched was the still air inside a lonely cell. He hadn't been there, he had not said a final goodbye. He should have. _He could have._

 _I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry._

Another tear wormed its way to the corner of his eye and threatened to jump out from the protection of the edges of his eyelids.

The images in the hologram shifted; the coffins were being lowered into the soil.

 _Splat._

Another drop of salty liquid fell onto the ground.

Through the small safety-glass window on the metal door, Sgt. Sal frowned at his prisoner. The inmate's health was rapidly declining, and his obsession with the funeral clip did not make his deteriorating condition any better.

Anakin's tool set had not been touched at all, nor his tray of food and drink. Both lay in their separate corners of the cell. The man was lying, crumpled on his cot, starting the recording once more as his body involuntarily shook. The disheveled blanket and rags that he rested under trembled and shifted along with him.

Sgt. Sal sighed, took Anakin's newest tray of food, then opened the door and stepped into the cell. He adjusted the lighting inside, turning it to a dim level just so he could see better without hurting the other man's eyes.

There was a swishing of fabric, then a phantom-like voice,

 _"Luke?"_

Anakin had sat up, though with his wavering arm, he was most likely going to collapse soon. The pitiable man was staring at Sal, wide-eyed, with tears still trickling down his face. Sal quickly set the food tray onto the table, then rushed to help the elder man into a sitting position.

" _Li-light- h-headed…"_ Anakin weakly leaned on Sal as the sergeant carefully tucked the blanket tighter around his prisoner. The former Sith lord seemed to have muttered something mellow under his breath, but the voice was so low, Sal could not hear a single syllable. He closely examined the man; his blue eyes sank further into his face, and his cheekbones were more pronounced. The man's shoulders sagged, but his eyes were wide with excitement and love.

 _"Luke?"_ The man repeated, a little louder this time, trying to amplify his voice to make sure his 'son' could hear. He huddled closer to Sal, trying to give his warmth to the younger man as compensation to his frail body being unable to properly greet him. A smirk appeared on his terribly dry lips, which ruptured, leaking a small trickle of blood.

The man seemed to ignore his new, though nearly painless, wound. With crinkling old eyes that shone with devotion, he playfully teased, _"Lukie?"_

That earned a quiet chuckle from Sal. The sergeant turned to retrieve a napkin on the tray, and lightly smeared away the blood on Anakin's face. Anakin's smile grew wide, his tear-streaked, scarred, thin and pale cheeks stretching into a grin that went from ear-stub to ear-stub. "L-Luke!" The man croaked, his glassy blue eyes shining with fresh, overjoyed tears. Sal reached down and squeezed Anakin's metal hand, his other hand reaching to rub the prisoner's crooked, hunched back.

Sgt. Sal could swear he heard a sigh of relief. After another squeeze of the metal hand, he went and took the rest of the food tray to Anakin's bedside. He knew Anakin had, in a means of coping, assumed his prison guard as his son. The elder Skywalker's actions were understandable, after Mothma's explanation to the sergeant.

"Come,"Anakin croaked, motioning his 'son' to sit closer, old blue eyes gazing with adoration. Sal awkwardly did so, and immediately Anakin wrapped his blanket around the sergeant, wishing to share the warmth. He kept Sal in an embrace, his left hand moved to caress Sal's cropped, blonde hair.

"Your new hairstyle makes you look sharp," Anakin commented, his wizened cheeks crumpling in affection. The man pulled Sal closer, and with a short inhale, began his confession.

"I've missed you, Luke. They- they sent me a recording of a funeral and they said you were dead. I... I was so worried..." He paused, wheezing, taking a few moments to gather his shaky breath. "However, my dear son, it seems that you are safe and in your Old Man's arms. Tell me, my precious child, how was your mission?"

"It was quite successful... Father."

Anakin's face beamed with pride. He reached up with his hand and ruffled Sal's blonde hair. Eyes crinkling into slits of pride, Anakin rasped hoarsely,

"I love you, son. I'll always love you. Never forget that. I love you more than all the stars in the galaxy."

Sgt. Sal nodded and pulled out a shy smile, but soon his eyebrows creased into a frown. "You're so skinny... Father. Are you eating enough?"

Anakin admitted, "Do not worry, Child; this is my own fault. I was worried sick while you were gone. I did not hear about you, nor could I feel your presence through the Force. I couldn't eat while knowing my son might be in grave danger."

Sal nodded, looking down, hoping the elder Skywalker would not catch the pang of sadness that appeared in his eyes. He knew the junior Skywalker - Luke was a good man and a hero to the Alliance. Sal certainly did not want to hurt Anakin while the man was in a sparse moment of happiness. He murmured gently,

"Oh, Father. I'm safe, see?" He took Anakin's hand and cupped it around his face, convincing the older man. "I'm in good condition, and I want you to be healthy too."

Anakin nodded.

With Sal's help, Anakin managed down his entire meal, plus his medication. The man grimaced at the medicine but said nothing. Sgt. Sal had to spoon-feed Anakin, who, with his right hand, refused to let go from squeezing his son's hands.

There was a quiet grunt.

With the help of Sal, Anakin had painstakingly adjusted to a better lying position on his cot. As Sal pulled the blanket onto Anakin's form, they continued their conversation.

Sal's chronometer beeped. The sergeant tapped to turn it off, then gave a light squeeze on Anakin's shoulder.

"Sorry, Father... I have to go."

Shifting up, he stepped away. Behind him, he heard Anakin weakly begging for his 'son' to come back, his voice raspy yet persistent. Then there was a swishing of fabric, and a loud thump and groan.

Sgt. Sal turned around to find Anakin's half-metal form feebly lying on the ground. After a few wheezes, the man began dragging himself forward with his right arm. Panting, he stubbornly inched forward, little by little. Sal stared, quite disturbed, as the cyborg coughed and tightly wrapped his right arm and left stump around the sergeant's legs.

Like a small child, Anakin looked up with pleading eyes and whimpered, "please stay?"

Sal bent down, and gently pried Anakin's arms off his legs. "I can't surpass the limit of two hours, Father. I'll be back tomorrow." He lifted the man up - _hell_ , his body was so _kriffing_ light - and carried him back onto his bed.

"Meanwhile, why don't you tinker with those tools? I'd love to see another design from you."

Anakin nodded, his eyes creasing as he pulled Sal into an embrace. "I love you."

Sal nodded. "I know, Father."

Anakin's smile grew larger as he released his 'son'. Before the two parted for the day, Anakin murmured,

"May the Force be with you, my son."

When Sal peered through the door and managed to catch Anakin's sleeping form, he immediately noticed the pure, joyful smile plastered on his prisoner's grotesque face.


	6. Prison Cell: 1 day later 1 month later

(Short chapter. It's more of a filler.)

* * *

 **One day later**

Anakin's condition improves as Sal faked his identity as Luke Skywalker.

 _Luke... Luke_?

Tendrils of the Force were cast out, desperate to find Luke's signature. Anakin had not been able to feel his son's presence for nearly an entire day; the only reply he would receive was a cold, harsh void. Anakin would be lying if he said he wasn't worried.

The tendrils shifted back, then reached out again.

Faded blue eyes shifted their gaze towards the slowly opening door. A spike of excitement and relief ignited within Anakin as he saw the cropped blonde hair of his son.

"Luke! Come here, my dear son," he raspily greeted, gesturing towards the bunk with his metal hand, his shriveled face beaming with love. Sgt. Sal moved towards the man, and carefully sat onto the bunk with a smile of his own. The two men sat in silence for a little while.

"Is your health in good condition?" Anakin suddenly spoke. "I could not feel you through the Force."

Sgt. Sal's face paled a little, but he nodded, squeezing Anakin's hand to reassure the man. "Everything's fine, Father." He swiftly glanced at the table, were one of Anakin's new creations resided. _i suppose that would be good for switching topics._

"Could you show me what that is?" Sgt. Sal pointed at the object on the table.

In a childlike fashion, Anakin proudly displayed his work at his admiring 'son'.

 **One month later**

Anakin, who had returned to the Alliance in shambles, was getting healthier and healthier by the day. He had Sgt. Sal to thank for.

Sometimes Anakin would ask about Leia; Sal would always reply that she was "well", but very busy. Anakin knew the truth, though he kept it to himself: she was avoiding him on purpose. He was disappointed, but understood her perfectly valid reasons.

He's lived with pain for over twenty years. He's accustomed to it. Surely he could live with it for a while more. He can accept her neglect.

'Luke' had assured Anakin that the Alliance was giving him a break from missions, so he could linger around and come visit his father daily, for as long as the prison allowed.

Every day, Anakin would insist in trying to reach out to Luke through the Force, but each day there would be no prevail. However, Sal would return with no scratches and wounds on his body and give Anakin comfort that his 'son' was still alive and well. Anakin could not make sense of why he had lost his connection towards his son, and nor could the impersonator of Luke Skywalker. (Of course he couldn't.)

Sgt. Sal stepped into the dimly lighted room, ignoring the wooziness in his head. He had to complete his duty first, before going to bed.

"Luke!" Anakin greeted, just like he always would. Extra warmth was in his voice today. "If my knowledge of today's date is correct, it is your mother and I's anniversary. Sit," he patted the edge of his bunk, motioning Sgt. Sal to come forth.

Sal sat down next to Anakin, and asked, "could you tell me about it?"

Sadness, which usually lingered only at the back of Anakin's head, penetrated into his eyes, filling them with grief. But the grief was soon overcome by a wave of joy.

"Of course."

The two engaged in a pleasant conversation.

As he strode out of the room, Sal promised to be back tomorrow.


	7. Prison Cell: 1 day later

TRIGGER WARNING.

* * *

It had become apparent by morning that Sergeant Sal has contracted an illness from the planet that hosted the Alliance's newest base. The plague had quickly spread through the Alliance, rendering many, including Sal, bedridden in the medbay.

And leaving the lonely and distressed Anakin with no visitor in his cell.

There was a frown on Anakin's hairless forehead. He still could not contact his son through the Force and was aware that Luke had been avoiding the topic all along. _Perhaps I am ill,_ he would think to himself. Luke did not appear to be in any bad condition. Or, perhaps the Alliance had placed a Force-repelling creature somewhere close to his cell; it seemed that Luke couldn't use the Force when he was nearby, either.

Inside the cell, time unknowingly trickled away from the man. Anakin patiently waited for his son to show up, as he always would. He was not sure how long he had been anticipating Luke's arrival, sitting with his hand behind his back, clasping at the fabric of his newly adorned inmate uniform. The texture of the uniform was a little itchy on his sensitive skin.

However, when Luke still did not appear after what seemed like hours, fatigue finally hit Anakin. Anxiety was nagging at him- was his son in danger? Oh, how he wished the Force would return to his aid. _Luke must be on an urgent mission,_ the man thought to himself, in a means of comfort.

 _Surely, he would pardon an old man like me for taking a nap?_

Yes... knowing his ever-loving, overly optimistic and forgiving son, surely Luke would.

 _Funny how I, quite pessimistic and hatred-fueled at times, fathered such child like this._

Huh. With Luke's maturity, sometimes Anakin would wonder that if he was still his formerly fiery, brazen (in his youthful years, at least), livid self, that Luke would have been his father. It made more sense in reverse. It seemed as if mindless obedience and everlasting depression were the only things that had matured as Anakin aged. (Excluding his physical appearance, of course.) The harsh temper seemed to have stuck around, looming with even less control under his years as a Sith. Though, he had to admit, Luke had softened him into a stuffed Loth-cat doll in his time as a captive.

Exhaustion blurred his vision and gave him a headache. Soon, the aging man let himself be taken by sleep.

The Light Side was overwhelming here, leaking into his flesh, skin and bones. His body was soaked in its embrace. It felt so enchanting, to bathe in this Light...

A warm, soothing breeze danced across his discolored face. _Where is my oxygen tube?_ He questioned for a moment, frantic, fumbling around, until he realized that pure, unpolluted air was already gushing into his charred, useless lungs.

He... he could breathe!

He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the galloping air, grinning as it seeped into his cracked lips, down his parched throat, and tingled his lungs. He breathed slowly. Inhale... exhale... One cycle. Inhale... exhale... two cycles.

He hadn't felt like this for more than two decades.

Oh, the air, so clean... Utterly opposite of the mustiness, the _putridness_ of the air outside this dreamworld. Outside were the horrors, the misery...

Infectious joy spread across his face, lighting up the dents and crevices, sending his dry lips to rupture again. He lapped the blood that leisurely oozed out from the wound, quickly stopping its bleeding with his saliva. The pain on his lips lightly stung, and numbness struck soon, but not from the meager wound, but that the muscles in his cheeks were not accustomed to stretching so much.

Weightless grey mist, its color almost matching his pallor, swarmed around his broken body, and urged him to tread forward in a benign fashion.

 _I will move, I will move... after another breath, yes..._

"Father... come to us..."

W-was that Luke? And... and his dear Leia? He strode towards the direction of the voice, the grey mist dispersing and dissipating around him. Dark shadows drifted around, but the shadows did not sneak up and haunt the lone man with any malevolent intentions. Instead, they were harmless, softly guiding his way towards the two figures in the distance.

Anakin swore he could hear... _he could hear it, loud and clear!_... laughter. Delighted, gleeful laughter, coming from beautiful, priceless mouths and lungs. The figures were clothed in white, basking in the gleaming light that beamed down from somewhere above.

He closed his eyes to shield them from that blinding light, though he yearned to stare at it, to be subdued by it, to be absorbed into the light's very being. Beneath his knees, the grey mist rolled for a few more minutes before quietly tumbling away, kissing his feet, whispering angelic goodbyes into his ears.

 _I must be dreaming._

"Is... is that a sun?" The old man croaked, his voice weak but thick with emotion, filled with ecstasy. Tears threatened to spill out like waterfalls from his burning eyes. He could _feel_ the colors; they were so beautiful, a pallet of pinks and blues and all the gorgeous hues painted in the clouds and skies. And the blazing star, the _sun_ , it cast its celestial, golden rays of absolute warmth onto his pallid face. It felt so good- that divine heat that unashamedly crept across his marred skin, conquering every cell, every molecule.

And... and a sudden, unexpected touch... a comforting, _the most_ comforting wrap around his broken torso...

 _His_ touch...

 _His_ mellow, affectionate, adoring, loving touch...

His voice was more holy, more sacred, than that of an angel.

"There's perpetual sunlight here, Father."

Anakin returned the embrace, his breath rattling in a suffocating love, his limbs near collapse. Reluctantly - he relished his son's touch too much - he opened his eyes, daring to look at what he beheld, and...

 _Oh... absolutely beautiful..._

The angels on the moons of Iego could not compare to the sight before his eyes.

Brilliant blue eyes and marvelous brown eyes stared up into the faded old orbs of their father. Leia, his beloved daughter, was standing behind Luke; Leia, the beautiful, bold and brave, unflinching at the horrid sight of the pallid, aging man.

Luke had dug his face into Anakin's chest, nuzzling his father like an infant. Anakin affectionately reached down to touch Luke's hair.

It was mesmerizing- the return of his sense of touch. Metal fingers skimmed along the infinitely soft fabric of Luke's white gown, stroked his silky blonde hair, cradled the smooth skin on his son's blushing cheeks.

Anakin closed his eyes once more, focusing on touching wherever his son allowed him to, feeling the never-ending amount of different textures that he had not felt in what seemed like a lifetime. He did not stop until there was a warm hand resting on his metal ones.

It felt like Luke, but Anakin knew it was not his son. He gradually opened his eyes, his mind still in the trance of his newly regained touch, to a young and otherworldly Leia who was beaming at her biological father, her face full of love.

 _Why?_ Asked Anakin, to himself. _I... I don't deserve this... I don't deserve her smile..._

"Hello, Leia." Anakin cautiously murmured, greeting his daughter but simultaneously careful not to overstep his tight boundaries.

Leia's smile grew wider, though she remained silent, as if asking for him to speak a little more. Anakin was completely baffled at her serene reaction. Meanwhile, Luke was completely swallowed into Anakin's chest, his head buried there, encased by warmth.

"I've... I've missed you two."

Leia reached up and cupped a slender hand around her father's disfigured left cheek. Tears suddenly brimmed Anakin's eyes, and those eyes widened, _knowing_ that he must be dreaming, that Leia would not persist with her affection.

The hand slid off his face. _This is it,_ he thought to himself. Yet Leia playfully shoved Luke out from Anakin's grasp (making her brother whine a little- something Anakin thought he would never see) then tightly wrapped her arms around his torso, burying her head into his chest much like how Luke did.

"I love you, Father. I'll always love you, no matter what."

Anakin gasped, and hesitantly gave a light tap on her shoulder. _This... this is a dream... I'm dreaming..._

He looked down, wishing so hard that he could pat her head, caress her cheeks. His voice was choked when he asked: "Have you... have you forgiven me, my dear?"

Leia nodded. "Of course." Her voice sounded like that of a saint.

There was a watery smile on Anakin's face. "May I hug you in return?" The man held his breath, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

There was a shy chuckle before she gave permission and nuzzled her face further into her father's chest. "'Course," came her muffled voice. "You don't have to be so polite, Father." Anakin's arms collapsed around her lithe waist, squeezing her tight. "...Love you," he mumbled, his voice strained as he was afraid she would not hear. After a few moments, it seemed as if Like had joined their precious moment, placing his cheek snugly in a gap that the father and daughter had left for him.

Anakin looked down, unfocused sight gazing into his daughter's eyes. "Why... Why have you forgiven me?" He inquired, his voice soft, not wanting to provoke her in their delicate peace.

There was another chuckle emitting from Leia, and her glittering brown eyes crinkled as a smile graced her face. Anakin could not help but awkwardly give his own grotesque smile, bashfully displaying his uneven, mostly rotten teeth. His scars painfully stretched, faded eyes staring lovingly.

Leia did not cringe. Reaching up to cup his hairless face again, she murmured, "I am one with the Force now, Father. I am aware of all the tragedy that has occurred in your life." She ran her palm along Anakin's scalp, soothing the frail man.

Anakin paused for a moment, smiling in absolute adoration, before realizing her words.

 _One with the Force?_

Oh, no... Are they... Are they...?

 _Gone?_

Memories crept back- the blue hue of the holovideo, glowing in the dark room, casting its stray lights of sadness onto the walls.

The coffins, lowering into the ground...

That's why he could not feel his precious Luke in the Force.

He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the grief. Each breath felt so heavy, like a burden. Overwhelmed with the loss, he felt a pang of pain inside his chest, as if monstrous claws were trying to drag him down, sink him under murky water...

A hand gently laid itself on his hunched shoulders, trying to tell him it's alright.

"I'm right here, Father. Don't worry, I'm always with you. We're always with you."

Anakin's voice cracked. "Luke?" He called out, still not daring to open his stinging eyes.

Luke's hands prodded at his father's ear stubs. "Can you feel me?"

Anakin nodded, cherishing his son's kind touch.

"See? I'm beside you, and I'm doing alright."

Anakin's chest heaved. "Son... Tell... Tell me the truth..."

Luke leaned onto his father, running a hand over his bent back, hushing the man as if he were an infant. "I perished on Korriban," he whispered. "Sergeant Sal has been acting as a decoy to comfort you. Your grieving mind simply assumed the sergeant as me..." the young man let out a chuckle. "If I ever meet the man, I really should give him my gratitude."

Anakin remained silent for seemingly hours before mouthing a hushed "oh". He lowered his head in grief, waves of memories washing in and out.

There was a firm squeeze on his shoulder. "Do not wallow in your heartache, Father. Let us spend what little time we have in laughter."

Anakin raised his head, his brows arching. Blinking away tears, a trembling smile slowly broke across his face.

"Have... have I told you how sweet your voices are? I... I... I love... I love listening to your voices."

"Your voice is wonderful too, Father."

He rested on the seemingly invisible ground, clouds rising and expanding as his twin children sat in his lap. There was a comfortable silence for a while, but when it appeared, Anakin immediately noticed the frown on his daughter's face.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He asked, his voice teeming with concern.

Leia bowed her head. "I'm... I'm sorry that I treated you so terribly," she whimpered like a small child.

Anakin laughed, though with his lungs the laughter could not last long. With a wide grin on his face, metal fingers reached up to tickle her nose. She squirmed and squealed at the metal contacting her skin and rapidly running back and forth.

He spoke once she was calmed down.

"Darling, I suppose it appears that after a few encounters, I simply disregarded your former attitude. Your reactions were understandable; it is my fault for hurting you in the first place, my precious one. You're my daughter, and ever since I found out about your existence, I have vowed to love you. How can I be mad when I broke my own promise? There is no need for apology."

Leia nodded, smiling in gratitude.

She went on her tippy-toes, her arms wrapped around his neck as she tried to kiss her father's disfigured cheeks. In a swift motion, he bent down and lifted her into the air, twirling her around; like an immature toddler, she screamed in thrill and giggled in joy. Enthusiasm and amusement spread from Luke, stretching towards all directions.

Anakin set Leia down after she yelped dizziness. He could hear their laughter, so pure and innocent. For countless times, tears threatened to seep out from his eyes, and when they finally did, he frantically wiped them away with his left arm stump, sliding his eyelids down at the same time.

While the world darkened in his closed eyes, he felt the temperate breeze wash away, and he drifted, up and away, up and away...

He tried to reach for his children, to clamp his hand with their grasps, but they were far gone, in the ground below. There was a clear voice that trickled into his head. The voice only spoke: _"Mother is waiting for you..."_

 _Luke? Leia?_

Sluggishly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The scene in front of him was so familiar and uninviting, so vastly different from that heaven that had been his dream...

He was lying on metal. The coldness of it hit his skin, making him shiver. His ribs hurt from his excessive laughter, and his cheek muscles were practically burning, for they had not been so used in decades. He could feel tears still running down his face, dripping down, blurring his vision, forming a small puddle. With each passing moment, the metal felt colder and colder, and his hand began to shake, then his entire body...

Quivering under a blanket, trembling above the harsh, freezing surface of the cot.

 _Oh. I'm back._

He wished so desperately that he could still be in that trance, but he supposed there was an end to everything.

His children have passed. He could not deny the truth any longer.

"Luke... Leia... Luke... Leia..."

The words projected to the opposite wall, then reverberated around the cell, echoing across the metal slabs. Salt stung the flesh under his cracked skin; however, he did not flinch. This little bit of suffering on an already spoiled facade was nothing.

It was time he stopped clinging on. The pain, the constant anguish... not worth it. Not worth what ecstasy his death could bring - if he were fortunate enough to be granted permission to pass into the Light.

But... but he should write Sal a note... a note for trying to comfort him and help him cope.

A small metal bar was lifted into the air and began etching marks into the lone chair.

Unhesitating, he rested his head onto the thin pillow and closed his aching eyes. A resolute metal hand wrapped its fingers around his oxygen tube, clenching it tight.

With a swift jolt, he yanked the tube off from the hole in his trachea, and watch the slender object rise into a natural position, dislodging itself further. The air left his lungs, but he did not gasp for it to come back, instead remaining in silence, so the guards would not notice and prevent his death. He could feel himself choking, deprived of oxygen, but there was no panic.

He was at peace. Luke and Leia -the greatest gifts ever to be bestowed upon him- seemed to be by his side, cradling his body, ready to lift his spirit away from his corporeal form. Ghostly fingers affectionately stroke his bald head and marred face. If he could be sure he was not hallucinating, then he would say their faces were also there, smiling down at him, loving him, calling for him.

Their angelic voices came in gentle murmurs.

 _"Rest now, Father..."_

 _"It is time you join the nonliving..."_

 _"We are waiting for you..."_

For a few moments, his vision shifted blindly between black and consciousness. Then, one of his children veiled a hand over his eyes, further sending him towards his eternal sleep. Darkness ensued, encasing him, but he basked in it, for the darkness is not cold and callous, not like the Darkness of the Sith, but soothing and welcoming. There was no pain, no suffering, only an everlasting tranquility and comfort. Warmth flowed out to him from the Force, and he smiled, knowing he will be with his family soon.

 _"There's perpetual sunlight here, Father..."_

 _"I love you, Father. I'll always love you, no matter what..."_

 _"Mother is waiting for you..."_

A last breath drifted from his lungs.

In a few hours, when the guards come inside with his next meal, they will discover their prisoner to have passed on.

* * *

A/N:

Yay. My "classic". Killing off a character after they dream of something better. Unhealthy or not, I dunno.

There's an epilogue.


	8. Epilogue

1:

Perplexed by its beauty, he stared at the alluring figure.

 _Could it be_ her?

 _Yes... it is her, indeed._

She was facing away from him, towards the sun and the heavenly skies. Lavish brown hair dangled down, softly swishing in the breeze. From the back, she looked just as gorgeous as when he last saw her...

When he killed her.

Remorse cut across his chest, zapping into the flesh heart, leaving an anguish that stung like Palpatine's Sith Lightning whenever Vader was subject to torture.

 _Conceal your anguish._

The old man marveled at the ethereal form, the undying sunlight casting a halo around her radiant body.

Tears gathered at the corners of his still-healing eyes. Tears of shame, tears of regret, tears of misery... Tears of love. At the sight of her, his heart pounded as if it was brand new and had never beat before. He sniffled, his hands trembling a little. His muscles were tense and stiff, unsure what her reaction would be...

 _Would she be mad? Would she curse me, condemn me to the Corellian Hells?_

He would not feel agitation if she were to do such things; after all, he had committed such atrocities in his lifetime. For half of his entire physical existence, he wrongly served as the bane against all things she ever stood for: peace, freedom, and justice.

 _Or would I, though I do not deserve it, be forgiven?_

Mustering every ounce of courage he held inside, he swallowed and gave a long inhale before stepping closer to her. _What... what should I say...? What... yes... yes._

He tried his best to make a decent impression, but his voice only came out as a hoarse, ancient-sounding croak, thick with emotion.

"Are you an angel?"

She did not turn around, but the old man heard her voice nonetheless:

"What?" There was great warmness and affection, and perhaps even a bit of a giggle to her reply, yet the old man could not ignore the tinge of sadness that came with it.

His tears dripping out uncontrollably and his voice coming in quiet, wavering whispers, he carried on:

"An angel." He paused, a cough searing through his body. Did he... Did he feel a wave of concern pass from her? Oh, how unworthy, how undeserving was he to her care. He gathered his breath, wheezing a little, but continued rasping:

"When I was a naïve boy on Tattooine, I heard the deep space pilots talk about them." His voice crackled, broke, disintegrated. Out of necessity, he took a moment to recover his air and regain his pitiful voice. "When I was a young... yes, a young but more sophisticated man fighting in the Clone Wars, I had the pleasure of one appearing in my sight. They live on the moons of Iego, and they're the most beautiful creatures in the universe."

The old man paused, contemplating for a moment, realizing those words did not fully express what he wished to say.

"Darling, please forgive me, for I have misspoken... You are not an angel from the moons of Iego. You are a being that is far more lovely and precious, so much that I have no words to describe you."

The old man held his breath.

Padmé Amidala turned around. A jubilant smile displayed her straight rows of pearly teeth, so vastly different from the crooked ones inside the old man's hideous mouth. Her smile offered comfort without words. Tears were cascading down her shimmering face as she murmured with her soothing, tranquil voice,

"Oh, my dear Anakin... I am not an angel, at least not one from the moons of Iego. I do not wish to be an angel. I just want to be your wife.

I just want us to be with each other again. For eternity."

* * *

 **A/N.**

 **-I'm fully aware that Ani's not actually that old, but he describes himself as old earlier in the fic**

 **-Also, I know Vader did not kill Amidala (he only choked her), but it felt more fitting for him to be unaware that he was not the one who ended her life, and still be wallowing in remorse over it.**

* * *

2:

The speed of Sergeant Sal's recovery was quite stunning- but then, he is a healthy young man in his early twenties. A pale hand running through his blond hair, he strode down the hall, towards that all-too-familiar cell.

He had heard the news in the med bay- the suicide of Anakin Skywalker, or, since the clear majority still went by the title of his infamous former self, Darth Vader. It was quite sad, really; one, the man had been an asset to the Alliance, and two, in the time Sal spent as a guard, he came to know the man well enough to comprehend that he was much more than a machine.

Sal knew just how much his prisoner had loved his children, even if that love was partially unrequited. And since it would not be an overstatement to say that Sgt. Sal had always been a diligent man for all tasks he cared for, whether it be paperwork or guard, with his interactions at the elder Skywalker's side, his reactions were natural.

Surprisingly enough, when security forces finally entered the cell, they had found no body. The cameras located throughout the room, which all were not tampered with, indicated that the corpse just... disappeared. Evaporated.

With his release from that prison-like place, Sgt. Sal had been desperate to return to Anakin's former cell. And now, he had finally arrived. A few other former guards to the cell, who had also known a little about Anakin, were already present. Sal greeted them with a sharp nod; they returned the gesture.

Closing his eyes, Sgt. Sal drew in a breath, then walked in.

The note was unevenly scratched into the chair, but eligible nonetheless. Tears prickled at Sal's eyes as his eyes scanned the note over and over.

 _"Dear Sgt. Sal. If you read this message, it is most likely that I have passed on. If I may, I ask two more things from you. One, that I be buried by my wife Padmé Amidala Skywalker, on Naboo. You have my gratitude."_

Yes. Padmé Amidala Skywalker... He had heard of the Naboo senator and queen, but never had he known the relationship that ran between her and his former prisoner. But since she was an honorable woman, he would do his best to fulfill his wish. The note continued.

" _Two, please let Han Solo know that I greatly appreciate his company with my late daughter and inform him that he is a truly remarkable man, though his manners and etiquette may be of contradiction."_

On the other hand, General Solo would not be difficult to find.

The next part was when the emotions would hit and swell like a hurricane inside Sgt. Sal's chest.

 _"Thank you for your efforts in aiding me to cope with the tremendous loss of my children. Know that I am now in a better place."_


End file.
